


in dreams begin responsibilities

by wildestranger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Everybody Lives, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their discussions are not always about the things they discuss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in dreams begin responsibilities

**Author's Note:**

> Two things are to blame for this story. First, that my mind was warped from an early age by reading too many regency romances, and consequently the trope of X wins Y's virtue in a bet is one I find immeasurably appealing. 
> 
> The second is my continued annoyance by the death of the young revolutionaries in Les Miserables, and my tendency to shout "Do not listen to a singing twelve-year-old! That's no basis for revolutionary decisions!" at the film. I decided to fix that.
> 
> Warnings: Marius dies so that that everyone else may live. Gavroche gets slapped in the face, also so that everyone else may live.
> 
> Finally, this story is dedicated to Torakowalski as a shamefully late birthday present. Hope you enjoy!

“This is well done. You plan your revolution with bourgeois precision.”

Enjolras looks up. For a moment he fears his own mind spoken out loud, but it is only Grantaire, twisting the meaning of what they have done and adding a spiteful insult. Enjolras is the only one stung, though; Courfeyrac is amused, and Combeferre continues to read his maps, a slight upturn of his mouth the only sign he has even heard.

Enjolras schools his face into steadiness, and observes Grantaire. He is leaning against the wall, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand, his limbs arranged to display the elegant curve of his body. Grantaire means to taunt him, but Enjolras has neither the time nor the inclination to allow it. His voice, when he finally speaks, is cool. 

“Your adjective is unnecessary, but I accept your noun – we are precise, because precision is what is needed here. Our enemy can be careless, but we do not have the weaponry or the men to fight like them. This means we must be careful, and win by planning rather than by force.”

“I do not question your tactics, Apollo – I have no doubt you would have made a fine Alexander.” Grantaire’s eyes are bright, happy in the way he only seems to be when picking on Enjolras. But his face turns unaccustomedly serious. “I wonder, though, whether you do have the support of the people? Alexander was loved by his men, and that is what made him great. Can you be sure that your play at revolution will not simply end in a pile of dead boys?”

Combeferre is paying attention now, frowning over his papers. Courfeyrac, paused, is looking to Enjolras. This is a problem they are aware of, though none but Grantaire has put it so crudely.

“We are in talks with the Society of the Friends of People and others – our plans are united, our steps planned. We have done as much as can be done before we begin.”

Grantaire straightens up. The bottle in his hand is mostly empty but his steps are steady; his mouth is stained with wine but no less able for that. Enjolras finds himself gritting his teeth in anticipation, sees Grantaire notice his aggravation, and begin to smile.

Their discussions are not always about the things they discuss.

“Yet your plan depends on the people of Paris. If they do not rise in support of your rebellion, you will be slaughtered. That you aspire to martyrdom I know, but surely it would suit your ambitions better to find a worthier cause than this? All you will accomplish is give the King a chance to demonstrate how the people love him when they fail to revolt.”

“The people,” Enjolras speaks through his teeth, “are starving. They are angry and they are sick. Paris is a powder-house ready for ignition. It only needs for us to light the spark and to control its direction.”

“So you say. But would it not be best to make sure before you throw your life away, and all of ours with you?” Grantaire’s hands, so often eloquent in expressing his contempt for their goals, are shaking as he gestures towards the table, the maps, their plans. Combeferre coughs, as if about to intrude on their conversation, and Courfeyrac is already on his feet, stepping towards Grantaire to pacify him. Or perhaps simply grab hold of his fingers; it is unlike Grantaire to be so agitated. 

Enjolras raises his hand to pause them.

It appears that for once, Grantaire is serious. But that, Enjolras decides, does not mean that he is right. He lifts his chin, and reminds himself of the Barriere du Maine, of every other time that Grantaire has been less than he should have been.

“Perhaps we should send someone to talk to the sculptors, then? Find out if they support our cause, see if they will fight with us? Oh but wait.”

His voice is quiet, but the silence which follows is quieter still. They have not spoken of this. Enjolras had been too angry, and the others had quickly found ways to compensate for what had been missed. Grantaire, he knows, has not been tasked with anything since, nor will he be.

Yet Grantaire, his direct gaze almost sober on Enjolras, offers neither apology nor defiance.

“Perhaps I did not speak fire into their hearts because there was nothing there to be kindled. I talked with them, and drank with them, and heard their complaints. They are not content, to be sure, but they enjoy their privileges under the king and the order which he offers. They do not have anything to gain from insurrection. Even your golden tongue would have been wasted there.”

He has their attention now. Enjolras see both his friends look at Grantaire, with concern at his words but also relief, that he did no fail them after all, or at least not as much as they had thought. They like Grantaire, he knows, all of them do. 

But Enjolras cannot yet forgive. Grantaire’s words bring no relief, and the sculptors are still lost to their cause.

“You heard them, and spoke with them, and did nothing. Do you expect gratitude for this execution of your task?”

Grantaire smiles, but Enjolras hears a sharp inhalation of breath from Courfeyrac. He will hear rebukes from his friends afterwards.

“ _Pas du tout_. I set out to discover whether they could be persuaded; I discovered that they could not. This is information you should heed.”

There is logic in what Grantaire says, but somehow Enjolras can only hear the melodious taunt in his voice. His hands, he realises, are in fists.

Combeferre’s voice, cutting into his growing irritation, is a relief.

“The people who gather at the Barriere du Maine have reasons to prefer their current position, but that need not be the case for all. Yet you make a good point, my friend.” 

( _My friend_? Is Grantaire so delicate that he must be cosseted with affection at every turn? But no, this is to counter his hostility. Enjolras takes a deep breath, determined to control his temper.) 

“…we should not simply accept the stated alliance of a few communities, or the word of a few leaders.”

Grantaire is nodding now, turning to Combeferre. Enjolras is reminded of how good his friend is, with people, with confrontations. With Grantaire. 

“The question we should be asking is this: will they leave their wives, their children?”

But this is ridiculous. “Their wives and children will be better off under the republic. It is for the sake of their wives and children that they should come.”

“But will they see it that way? Life is precarious, and your revolution will make it more so. They know what will happen to their wives and children if they fall. No, unless the women are prepared to join us, unless they will march with us ( _us_ , Enjolras thinks, and stamps down the frisson caused by that word in Grantaire’s mouth), the men will not come. Their wives will not allow it.”

Grantaire’s tone is patient now; he pleads with reason and a concern for their common cause, which would touch Enjolras, if not for the light tilt of his mouth, its red curve a too familiar reminder of old battles. Grantaire’s hands have once again taken to twirling with his speech, their indolent grace pressed in the service of his argument and undercutting it with every move. 

Enjolras has to swallow twice before he can make his voice clear.

“If men allow their bonds of affection to keep them from our cause, then the revolution is already failed. But you are wrong, Grantaire. The women of Paris marched to Versailles to take Marie Antoinette to task – there is courage to be found in them.”

“But will they march against Louis Philippe, who is so pleasant and so keen on peace with all the world? Their lives might not be rich, but they remember the chaos and the poverty that followed the first revolution. A second one might be worse. And their bonds of affection, as you say,” Grantaire pauses, as if to highlight the absurdity of the idea, “are stronger than you think – not everyone aspires to your high and solitary virtue.”

A fluttering of hands and a small bow accompanies this last comment, and suddenly Enjolras has no more tolerance for Grantaire and his insidious tongue. He walks around the table, comes to stand before Grantaire, and looks down on him. Grantaire, he is pleased to note, responds with a sudden flush, his mouth falling open, his hands slack by his side.

Yet it is a sight which troubles him also. Grantaire splayed against the wall, so open and so vulnerable before him, is a call for further action. What would happen if he pressed his fingers just there, if he stepped closer, put his hand over Grantaire’s mouth, or captured his eloquent hands? The thought is disconcerting, and that keeps him firm when faced with Grantaire’s show of abandon.

“My virtue has kept me unencumbered, and free to fight for our cause. I do not doubt that your experience of liaisons both sentimental and commercial has given you an insight to many vices, but I do question whether this knowledge equips you to criticise the commitment of others less prone to self-indulgence.”

Grantaire blinks, and his eyes turn cold. The mouth, which has taunted Enjolras over many weeks of arguments, snaps shut, and immediately curves into the most mocking of lines. 

“We have here an opportunity to test our convictions, I think. You believe your assessment of the people and their devotion to freedom is correct – why not test it?” 

Enjolras takes a step back, but Grantaire steps with him. Suddenly, they are not so far apart.

“How would you suggest we test it? A revolution is not the place for schoolboy games.”

Grantaire tilts his head as if to consider the point. He brushes past Enjolras and walks to the table, places his fingers on the map. “Here, and here. Send people to discover the mood of the people: are they angry enough to take to the streets, or simply angry enough to talk loudly in their cups? Send Feuilly to the bakers and Bahorel to the porters, they know how to judge people and what to say to canvass their mood. You need only send two; if the bakers and the porters will not rise, then neither will the rest of Paris.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras follows Grantaire’s fingers on the map. 

“And what purpose will that show? We have spoken to the bakers and the porters, and been assured of their support. What news do you expect Feuilly and Bahorel to discover?”

“Simply this. They can talk to people other than the apprentices who will join any rabble they find, and leave it as soon as they are sober again. Have them talk to the people in the taverns, the servants who clean after the bakers and the porters, and the women who keep their rooms. There is more to the public mood than you know.”

Enjolras scoffs. “But what of that? One man says he will come, another that he will not. It will all be different on the day – we must trust that the people of Paris will know their chance when it arrives.”

“It will not hurt to send someone to speak to a few more groups.”

Combeferre sounds thoughtful, but Enjolras suspects he is already convinced. He sees Courfeyrac nod in agreement, and is suddenly stung by an unworthy feeling of betrayal. His friends are only thinking of what is best for their cause. 

“I am not sure I see the need. There are other tasks we could ask of our friends – we have only four days before Lamarque is buried. The men of Paris are ready to rise – our attention is needed elsewhere.”

He addresses himself to Courfeyrac and Combeferre – it is their support that he needs, after all – but Grantaire’s look of calculation catches his eye. Calculation, and something else which makes Enjolras distrustful of what he is about to say.

“Your reluctance belies your certainty. And think, if you are right, you may command anything you like from me. My uncritical support. My presence at your barricade. My silence.”

Grantaire’s voice offers a temptation, even as it mocks. He knows well how aggravating his commentary can be; he makes it so on purpose, calculated to prick at Enjolras’s nerves until his manners give way. The thought of Grantaire standing quietly by his side, another brother in arms at his barricade, is appealing.

If it is a trick, it is worth risking, he decides.

“Very well. If I am right, I will expect all of that from you: your presence, your support, your silence. And your sobriety. You will put your bottle down and not raise it again until the republic is made anew.”

Grantaire stills, the bottle paused in his hand. This has been a bone of contention between them, the wine a constant presence at his side, his mouth perpetually stained red. Enjolras has spoken of it often, for wine makes men weak in their brains and feeble in their bodies. Grantaire does not grow addled with drink, but his words become sharp, more extravagant with flourishes and more likely to get under Enjolras’s skin. It is source of annoyance that he cannot prove Grantaire becomes less when he is drunk; the problem is that he becomes more. Too much, even. A sober, quiet Grantaire is a peaceful thought.

Grantaire looks at him as if he knows what Enjolras is thinking, but says nothing, only raises the bottle in a mocking toast. Enjolras grinds his teeth, and waits. It would be unlike Grantaire to refuse his offer now, but to change the terms into something new and impossible would be quite in character. 

The bottle, now empty, is placed carefully on the table, and Grantaire licks the remains from his lips. His voice, when he speaks, is as melodious as when he invited Marius to explain his feelings, and equally malevolent.

“What shall I claim, then, if you are wrong? I offer you a choice. A cancellation of your plans – if you do not have the support of the people as you claim, it is reasonable that you should not indulge yourself with a little rebellion.” The word is a direct hit – it occurs often in their arguments, employed by Enjolras to criticise Grantaire’s wilful excesses and careless abandon of himself. To use it here is both an insult and a challenge.

“Your other option,” and here Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras feels a spike of something strange in his stomach, “if you do not choose to relinquish your revolution, is to relinquish your virtue.”

Courfeyrac erupts from the side, “Grantaire, that is too much, you cannot ask…” But he is stopped by Combeferre, with a hand in his arm and a puzzlingly knowing look at Enjolras. It serves to silence Courfeyrac, who draws back to watch.

Enjolras looks to his friends; Courfeyrac is watching Grantaire with more worry for him than outrage at his suggestion. This is no secret, then, even if no one has spoken of it in his hearing. Combeferre, in turn, is unperturbed. He looks expectantly at Enjolras. 

His friend knows him too well.

But Grantaire is still waiting, and while his mouth still forms the same intolerable curve, his fingers are wrapped around the empty bottle a little too tightly. It is not the first time that Grantaire has indicated he would like to… _enjoy_ Enjolras, but it is the first overt proposition. It is also a challenge, and Enjolras knows Grantaire expects him to refuse.

He lifts his chin, and his voice is steady. “You think I value my person over the freedom of the people? I accept your terms.”

A slight widening of the eyes, but Grantaire controls himself well – in this one thing controls himself, and Enjolras cannot but feel disappointed that after countless invitations, suggestions, and erudite allusions which he has forced himself to ignore, his jab has occasioned no visible wound. Grantaire is looking at him, looking him over in a way he rarely does these days. It used to be a slow, curious gaze, taking him in from his boots to the cuffs of his shirt and the folds of his cravat, creating a low burning annoyance. 

But now Grantaire looks at him and finds, it seems, something unsuspected. His gaze turns considering.

“Well, Apollo, it shall be as you say. Let us hope the revolution will not lose either way.”

Grantaire raises his empty bottle in salute, his infuriating grin now firmly in place, and Enjolras bites his tongue. It will be enough to save his words for later; when the people arise, when they are victorious, when Grantaire, at last, will join them on the barricade.

Enjolras nods his agreement, and turns away.

 

*

Feuilly’s face on arrival tells his news; the support for their aims is less than hoped for, and less than is needed. Still, he walks unbowed to their table in the corner, his steps as steady and careful as ever. The Musain is busy today, and Enjolras has time to school his features to match Feully’s calm determination, and not let his despair show. Bahorel’s return an hour ago brought the same news; he has had practice.

His explanation had been easily given and brief: many had stated their dissatisfaction with their current state, but most would not take up arms against the king or his armies. 

“It’s not that they don’t care for their liberty,” Bahorel had offered, “or hope for better lives. But Louis Philippe is still new, and they all agree that he is better than Charles. Not good enough, perhaps, but not so bad that they would risk their lives and those of their families. There are few men entirely unencumbered by familial ties.”

The word, innocently voiced in Bahorel’s strong country accent, had halted his breath. He had looked up to see Grantaire leaning on his table, sprawled in the other corner between Prouvaire and Bossuet, the bottle before him almost untouched. Enjolras had noticed it when he arrived, found it unusual, and then thought no more about it. Later it had occurred to him to wonder why Grantaire had chosen to stay sober tonight.

He listens to Feuilly speak haltingly of uncertain promises, which on judgement, should not be relied upon. Enjolras cannot fault his friend’s assessment, but it burns him to hear it laid out so reasonably and methodically; this is how many are required in this area, this is how many we can expect to have. It is not enough, but they cannot fail now – the moment is too precious.

Combeferre signals his arrival with an arm on Enjolras’s shoulder, and sits down net to him. It still puzzles him that people should need something as simple as a clap on the arm, or a press of hands, to bring about a brotherhood – are they not souls more than bodies? – but he has learned to live with what he cannot understand, and to use it when he can. They have a brotherhood here, he thinks, forged with months and years of discussion and laughter and a common cause. They can make a wider brotherhood still.

Enjolras considers his friends; Courfeyrac sitting with Joly and Bahorel, their faces happy and determined, Feuilly with his worn hands and soft smile, willing to follow him even against the odds, and Combeferre, his mind as dependable as his courage. He could tell them now to wait, that the risk to their lives is too great. Perhaps another year, perhaps after some more suffering and death, perhaps then the people will rise with them. They would listen, and nod, and agree, and they would wait.

But perhaps not. This disease has killed thousands, and all the government has done is sent out notices declaring that they are not poisoning the wells. There are people starving because their work will not buy them food. And their liberties are diminishing daily, from speaking and meeting to writing and thinking. In five years’ time, how many of his companions will be languishing in prison, wasting their youth waiting for a trial?

The time is here. Enjolras stands up, and waits for the conversations to falter. He lets his gaze fall on them all, every friend so dear, every one waiting on his word. This is not a power to be wasted.

“My friends, the moment of revolution is almost upon us. We have spoken with our comrades from the Society of the Friends of People, we have spoken with the printers who will march for Lamarque, and we have spoken with our fellow students – they are ready to rise on the barricades, and to fight with us. The people of Paris are suffering, and more die every day from disease, from starvation, from the injustices which run through our society and which keep them low. Where is fraternity, when two brothers fight for one loaf of bread? Where is equality, when our children die on the streets while the spawn of Louis Philippe rest on sheets of silk? Where is liberty, when our speech is curtailed and our presses shut down?”

They are all watching him now, with hope, with excitement, with courage. Combeferre is smiling at him, Combeferre who that morning had told him that only the students of law and medicine had confirmed their willingness to join their march. Feuilly and Bahorel, who know the precariousness of their situation, are nodding at him. Only Grantaire frowns, his mouth a disapproving line. Enjolras lifts his chin, and directs his speech to them all equally.

“My friends, we have had troubling news today. Two of our comrades have been to speak to the People,” Enjolras pauses as Grantaire rolls his eyes, and waits till he has returned to his usual mutinous stare. “We have heard from the bakers and the porters, and while their hearts are with us, they are not willing to risk all for their freedom. Their poverty has sapped their spirits, and they cling to what security they have. The people of Paris are not ready to rise. Not yet.”

He takes a step back, and surveys his companions. Their looks are serious now, their faces grave but their eyes still burn. _They_ are ready.

“But although there is misery, the people of Paris still remember what they did in 1789, and what they tried to do two years ago. They know that there is strength in their numbers and in their arms, they know that if they rise they will win. Here is a chance for us to rouse them!“

A collective sigh escapes, and his friends begin to smile. They will not be denied their revolution after all. 

“We are enough to make a start; we can show them that there is courage and a will to fight for liberty, and we can ask them to join us. I do not believe the people of Paris are weak, I do not believe that they are fools. When they see our banners rise across the city, they will come!”

He avoids looking at Grantaire; this is too important for any distractions. 

“This is what I believe will happen – are you with me?”

Their cheers are not as jubilant as before, but they are heartfelt and sure. Combeferre is nodding, and Courfeyrac raises his glass in salute. Enjolras gives himself leave to sigh in relief: the decision is made and the agreement shared. They will march, and fight, and bring forth the Republic.

He sits down, and drinks the glass Courfeyrac pours him. The talk begins anew, of where to find more volunteers, or who might still be encouraged to join. Enjolras drinks his wine, and tells himself he is pleased, that this was the right decision. There is a chance here, and it would be foolish to give it away.

It is a quiet night, and they are all exhausted; one by one they start to leave, seeking their individual beds rather than company in the search for more company. Enjolras stays, and waits, until Combeferre at last gathers his papers and says goodbye. He does not ask why Enjolras is still there. They have both seen Grantaire, still seated in the corner with his unfinished bottle.

He waits, and watches. Grantaire waits, and watches also. After a while Grantaire smiles, not happily, and raises the bottle to his lips.

Enjolras rises to his feet.

“We made a bargain, you and I. I am prepared to honour it.”

Grantaire looks at him over the mouth of the bottle, and continues to drink. His fingers, widely spaced on the bottle, are pale and long, and loose in their grip. They are careful as they place their burden on the table, and Enjolras swallows, and looks up to catch Grantaire’s smile turn bitter.

“You decided to indulge yourself after all.”

Enjolras knows not to flinch. He keeps his gaze level.

“It is not out of youthful passion that we try.”

“But you could have waited. Another year might have given you at least a chance, but now you already know you will lose. Still, you chose to give up all our lives as martyrs for your republic.”

“Our lives, Grantaire? Surely you do not intend to join us on the barricade, on a cause you so despise?”

“No, I will not. I will sit in this café and drink the night away, and think of you not at all.”

He is speaking viciously again, and Enjolras doesn’t understand. It is reasonable enough to want your friends to live, and he doesn’t doubt Grantaire’s affection for the others. But why not then join them, and help them? Why not do his all to keep them safe? There is nothing to be gained form wasting the day in drunken stupor. 

“Enough. I chose this, and now I will pay the price. We agreed.”

Grantaire looks at him, and there is no hint of amusement now.

“You are very keen to pay the price. I don’t think anyone would judge you if you did not – your two witnesses have gone home, and I am unlikely to take you to court for a breach of promise.”

This is a curious reluctance. Enjolras frowns. “No. But we made the bargain in good faith, and your point has been proven true, and has been helpful. We are better armed with this information. I would not cheat you of your prize.”

“My prize?”

There is something teasing and warm in Grantaire’s voice now, and suddenly Enjolras is uncomfortable in a whole different way.

“You have made your preferences clear. I am not blind to your looks or deaf to your comments, even though I might wish to be. If, as you claim, we will all be dead by the end of the week, now is your chance. I have agreed, so let us go.”

His voice is perhaps too harsh, but this has gone on long enough. He doesn’t understand why Grantaire is delaying.

But he delays no more, getting on his feet and pushing his bottle away.  
His movements seem to have lost their usual grace; he stumbles against the table and curses under his breath. Enjolras frowns. Perhaps Grantaire had drank more of the bottle than he seemed, but even so, it should take more than a bottle to make him unsteady on his feet.

Then he looks up and Enjolras realises that it is anger, not drunkenness, that is making Grantaire clumsy.

“By all means, let us go. If you are so eager to play the martyr that you cannot wait until tomorrow, then let us go. I will play my part.”

And then Grantaire walks past him, weaving his way around the tables without waiting for Enjolras. He has to run to catch him; at the door Grantaire holds it open for him to pass, and says not a word. 

 

*

 

They walk in silence, and quickly. Grantaire keeps a room in a boarding house, not far from the Musain; not a long walk in a warm summer’s night, but Enjolras finds himself shivering and has to shove his hands in his pockets to stay warm. His brain is racing to keep up with his feet. Grantaire takes him past the locked door on the street, then up the winding stairs. His hand, Enjolras notes, is gripping the railing tightly as he pushes himself upwards. They are both out of breath when they arrive.

The room is simple enough, not unlike Enjolras’s own: a desk, a chair, a bed. A narrow bed, fit enough for one but unlikely to accommodate more with ease.

He turns from the bed to Grantaire, already watching him. There is no warmth in his eyes, not even that of anger, and Enjolras is reminded of the chill outside. But then again, Grantaire is not the only one who can provoke a fight.

“What have you planned for me? You must have imagined this many times.”

He means it to wound, and sees Grantaire take the hit; a tightening of the mouth, before it dissolves into a lazy curve.

“Indeed. I have thought about what I would do with you – take you apart with my mouth, or spread you on my bed and see if I could make you forget about your revolution.”

Grantaire has a way with words that makes Enjolras flush, makes him imagine the things spoken with vivid clarity. He _could_ take Enjolras apart with his mouth. He already does.

“But that is not for tonight. You are here under duress, after all, and I only treat those who come willingly to my bed. For you, I think, something different.”

Grantaire steps closer, and Enjolras realises that he is backed up against the wall, his hands in fists. He relaxes them, and looks Grantaire straight in the eye.

“Do your worst.”

A flicker of a smile on Grantaire’s face, as if Enjolras had said something unbearably amusing, and then he is near, close enough to touch. 

“Oh, I will,” says Grantaire, and cups Enjolras through his trousers.

It is impossible, it is too much, it is ridiculous; Enjolras cannot breathe and yet he does, great gulps of air that stutter every time Grantaire moves his fingers. It is ridiculous that he should feel so much with just one touch, he is not an instrument to be played with one careless hand, and Grantaire plays him too well. They do not touch anywhere else, but Enjolras is aware of Grantaire’s thighs bracketing his own, Grantaire’s shoulders threatening to press him into the wall, Grantaire’s lips so close that one tilt of his head would make them kiss. Enjolras turns his head to the side, and hears an amused _hmm_.

“I take your point, this will work much better.”

And then Grantaire’s mouth is on his throat; a press of lips underneath his ear, a hint of a tongue flickering over his collarbones, settling into an open-mouthed kiss under his jaw as Grantaire’s hand works him in a steady rhythm.

Enjolras has heard his friends discuss the tempting bosom of an actress, how a carefully placed collar will hide and reveal the precise location where a gentleman’s mouth longs to be. Like most such discussions, this has seemed like nonsense to him: what is so remarkable about this piece of skin that it would send many men, and to hear Courfeyrac tell it, many women, into raptures? But what Grantaire is doing with his mouth is a revelation, a pleasure sharp and sweet that makes him pant open-mouthed into Grantaire’s hair and press against his hand. His blood is pulsing fast, all the parts touched by Grantaire humming in concert, and Enjolras fears what this new knowledge, these new connections, will do to him. He cannot unknow it, cannot ever look at Grantaire without feeling on his flesh what he can do. 

Enjolras wrenches away, grabs Grantaire by his shoulders, and pushes him off. Grantaire looks wild, his mouth wet and reddened from its work, and Enjolras feels himself blush at the realisation. 

His hands tighten; they are not far apart. Enjolras takes a long breath, and tries for calm.

“Is it your design, then, to have me crudely against the wall?” 

Grantaire makes a show of consideration, bringing his finger to tap on his lip. Enjolras finds himself following the movement, sees Grantaire’s mouth curve in amusement; sees the amusement reflected in Grantaire’s eyes when he finally looks up. His cheeks are burning again.

“I could have you crudely against the wall. Pull your trousers down but let you keep your boots, then turn you over and make you ready with my mouth. Then again, I think I would prefer to see your face when I do that.”

Grantaire’s voice is calm and thoughtful, no wickedness in his tone but a world of it in his words. It is hard to think, with such images painted before him, of which Enjolras only understands half. He understands that the rest would be worse.

“Your mouth is filthy.”

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _what did you expect_? 

“Or I could do it this way, your back against the wall and naked from the waist. My shoulders would keep your legs up, or apart, make a space for me right here. I would watch you, and see your face when I push into you. I would take note of every noise. And you would know that I know.”

“Must you… do what you will do, but do not speak to me about it. I know you aim to torment me, but this is…”

“There are ways to shut my mouth.”

It comes out quiet, almost a murmur; meant, perhaps, only for Grantaire himself to hear, a quotation that he does not expect Enjolras to understand. But Enjolras knows what is meant when people say this, and Grantaire’s mouth has been taunting him all evening, taunting him for days and weeks, and it will stop his speech.

He grabs Grantaire by the shoulders, pulling rather than pushing this time, and slants their mouths together.

He feels Grantaire’s shock, the tightening of the muscles under his hands, the surprised breath escaping his mouth. Then, Grantaire is taking control, his body suddenly crowding Enjolras against the wall, his head tilting and his skilled mouth moving just so, finding an opening or making one, and Enjolras has no resistance left. He pushes towards Grantaire, his hands still gripping his shoulders, moving and following as directed. They are connected there, but Enjolras feels it everywhere, at the tips of his fingers, desperate and clumsy on Grantaire’s coat, on his legs opening for Grantaire’s insistent thigh, on his chest which is pushing desperately against Grantaire’s.

Grantaire’s hand is on his cheek, then buried in his hair; his mouth is as soft and clever as Enjolras had supposed. There are lips against his throat again, and teeth, and it feels like Grantaire is pulling his soul out through his skin. There is a hand on his chest, his shirt caught in a fist, pressing against his heart.

This time it is Grantaire who pulls back, his eyes dark, breathing loud gulps of air. It is hard to look at him; this is already a different Grantaire, with those hands and that mouth and a body that fits against his too well.  
Enjolras finds himself taking a step closer, and is stopped by Grantaire’s raised hand.

“That is enough for now.” His voice is rough, but the command compelling. “The preliminaries have been sufficiently performed, we may move on to the next part. Get on the bed.”

He doesn’t move. Beside him, Grantaire begins to disrobe: his coat on the chair by the window, his waistcoat on top, his neckcloth, already loosened, on the small desk. His shirt is placed again on the chair, and he sits on the bed to take off his boots. Enjolras hastens to follow.

There is nowhere else for his coat and shirt, so he arranges them carefully on top of Grantaire’s things on his chair, precariously balanced and intermingling. He sits to remove his boots; Grantaire is now standing by the desk, rummaging the drawers for something. 

Enjolras stands up. He is wearing only his trousers, his feet and chest bare, the chill of the evening pricking at his skin.

“Shall I remove the rest?”

Grantaire turns to look, a small bottle in his hand. Enjolras is conscious of his bare flesh, his skin flushed and flushing under Grantaire’s watchful eyes. There is a mild ache by his throat where Grantaire’s mouth had been, and from Grantaire’s lingering gaze he knows there is a mark. From the way Grantaire looks at him now, he suspects it will not be the only one.

“Well?”

Grantaire pauses his examination to look Enjolras in the eye, and shrugs, another _what did you expect?_ He makes an extravagant gesture towards the bed. Enjolras is reminded of his hands three days ago, encouraging Marius’ madness with an eloquent twist of his wrist, and his remembered annoyance stays his feet.

“As you like, Apollo. You will be naked by morning.”

He expected this to be different, for Grantaire to look at him with wanting, to take him over. This man is tired, and not a little angry; he still watches, but it is with something close to despair. Enjolras gets on the bed, first on his knees, awkwardly, then arranges himself to lie down on his back. He curves his feet to the side, and lays his head on a pillow. He wills himself to be calm.

“Why are you here, Enjolras?”

Grantaire sounds weary. In all their arguments he has never heard Grantaire defeated; melodramatic at times, but never as brimming with despair as these last days. But these are desperate days, for all of them, and there is no time to lose.

“We made a bet, and I lost. You may claim your victory.”

It is not enough, he knows, and Grantaire’s scoff tells him it has not been accepted as such.

“That is not why. I would not have claimed my victory; it was you who insisted. _Why_ are you here?”

Enjolras breathes out, closes his eyes, opens them again. “I am here because I gave my word.”

“You could have kept your word in other ways. Why are you here? Do you even know?”

He lies back, and says nothing. There is nothing he can say. Through half-closed eyes he sees Grantaire sigh, run a hand through his hair, then walk over to the bed. He brings the small bottle with him.

He stays still as Grantaire sits down, their bodies almost touching on the narrow bed. Grantaire is watching him, his eyes all too clear and too clear-sighted. It is hard to breathe under that gaze, but Grantaire places a hand on his chest and that helps, keeps him tethered to his body. His thumb rubs over Enjolras’s heart.

“Please,” he says. 

Grantaire blinks. His hand stills, and Enjolras holds his breath, watches as Grantaire looks at him, considers, waits. Then, a smile; a fond one with years of exasperation behind it. The hand over Enjolras’s heart slides upwards, all five fingers trailing slowly across his skin, coming to rest by his throat. Grantaire bends down, and kisses him.

The touch of that smile on his lips makes Enjolras unbend, something in him becoming loose after years of stillness, and he lifts his hand to touch Grantaire’s shoulder. Even so, he cannot bear to look; Grantaire is too near, moving over him and suddenly Enjolras understands how two people might share this bed. Not side by side as he had thought, but up and down, above and below. 

His premonition is realised – the bed dips, and Grantaire lies down with him, entangling their legs, his arms enfolding Enjolras stiffened limbs in a close embrace. A calloused palm is placed low on his spine, a bony ankle twists around his, and a mouth settles beneath his ear. He exhales, in relief or in release, and Grantaire chuckles against his throat.

“I begin to suspect you may have imagined this also. One day I should ask you to tell me your imaginings. However…”

Enjolras opens his eyes. Grantaire’s face is tucked under his chin, but the rapid in and out of his breath reveals his agitation. 

He cannot help what will happen tomorrow, but he can do something, slide his hands down Grantaire’s back, press his mouth to his wild hair.

“I am content to do with your imaginings.”

Grantaire remains still, but the body under Enjolras’s hands gives up its tension. He continues to stroke down, and wonders at texture of bone and muscles, how it connects with his fingertips, creating sensations which the thought of an unclothed back had never occasioned. At last, Grantaire lifts his head.

“My imaginings may shock your sensibilities. There are things a man may do with his mouth and hands, which I doubt have crossed your mind.”

His face is still serious, but there is a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Enjolras latches on to that, and gives Grantaire his most imperious look.

“Do your worst. I shall not waiver.”

Grantaire grins, a sudden burst of light. “We shall see.”

Then he moves down, and oh. Enjolras had not thought of that, and he finds it hard to keep thinking while that is happening. He knows that somewhere in the back of his mind Grantaire is laughing at him, and squirms, embarrassment mixing with sensation. He fills his hands with Grantaire’s hair.

After that he loses track, or possibly his mind: there are hands and a mouth as Grantaire had promised. It is easier not to think, easier to turn his face to the sheets and let Grantaire do what he will, press against him and into him with so much care he can hardly bear it.

He has known that Grantaire has a, _a desire_ for him, but this is something else. He is touching Enjolras like it matters that he is not hurt, even if by doing so Grantaire hurts himself. An unwelcome feeling, perhaps, but one Grantaire has accepted and will see through. Enjolras understands that; feelings are mostly unwelcome, as distractions or bringers of distress to those who have them. 

Grantaire does no let go when they are done; they remained entangled, bound together by sweat and other things as well as a curious disinclination to stop touching. It seems impossible that he should sleep, but his heart has finally slowed down and Grantaire’s breath against his throat is a balm for his too-full brain.

Tomorrow is too near, but there is nothing more he can do for it now.

 

*

The people do not rise.

Enjolras receives reports from other parts of the city, delivered by colleagues of Gavroche consisting mostly of dirt and bloodthirsty glee. The fighting has been fierce, but the National Guard are organised and they give no quarter. The people hide behind their doors, and do not concern themselves with the slaughter outside.

Their barricade is small, but they continue to hold. The first attack had taken Marius; attempting to keep the enemy from the barricade, he had been shot by the first man climbing and died moments later, bleeding at Courfeyrac’s feet. An unknown young man with a dirty cap had helped them carry the corpse inside the tavern, and Enjolras took up Marius’ threat of an exploding barrel, and forced the soldiers to back down. They have entrenched since, every man with his gun, his position, and his target. The National Guard have entrenched also, a tight circle surrounding them with snipers on roofs and cannons in front. Enjolras knows that there are men out there who have been given his own red coat as their target. They wait, and they hold.

The first night prolongs their hope. Messages run back and forth, rumours of the King absconding with his family, of a Convention being established, a new government with new people. But nothing is confirmed, and in the morning new troops arrive.

He keeps calm through the night, relaying new information and giving orders. Combeferre is in charge of keeping up morale, and Enjolras has not the heart to tell him it is all for nothing, that they are all going to die. Better to die with hope than with fear. He has not spoken to Grantaire since they started, but he is aware of the spot he occupies, a space in the back from which he averts his eyes. 

The second day, the National Guard begin to entertain themselves – perhaps there is a game involved, three points for a hat shot off, five for a head. After the first hour, all of les Amis are wounded; Enjolras has a cut in his arm from an exploded barrel as well as a bruise on his cheek from the police spy. The National Guard take their time – he watches as new soldiers come to relieve others, and new weaponry is brought to replace what has already been used. Theirs is neither the biggest nor the most important barricade; an afterthought, in all likelihood, something that needs to be cleared off before the city can be declared free (free!) and at peace, but nothing the Guard need exert themselves over. They are not going anywhere, after all.

At dawn, another report arrives, and it will probably be the last; there are no more barricades left to send them. Saint-Antoine is destroyed, he reads. Saint-Martin has been abandoned by its defenders. 

Enjolras thanks the boy, and sends him with a spurious message to the other side of the city. He does this with a calm composure, and the boy tries to joke with him, then asks him for money. Enjolras gives him what he has. He will have no further use for it, after all.

He knows himself to be a man given to anger, and cold with it; severe with others as well as himself, and unforgiving with failures in deed or in logic. That same cold fury has been growing in him for the past two days, aimed in part at the people who sleep safe in their beds – reason tells him that this ought to be a forgivable weakness, but his friends are bleeding around him and Marius is dead, and Enjolras is not willing to absolve them of the blame. Nor will he absolve himself. 

It burns him, but he does not shy away from the burn; it is through his weakness that they are dying. A willing blindness as well as the self-indulgence of rebellion – Grantaire was correct in his assessment, and that it is a different burn, one he cannot bear to think about yet. There are things he knows, things he has known for a while. He has chosen not to acknowledge them, but this is not a luxury he can allow himself now.

Enjolras looks to his friends. They are scattered, with some discomfort, over barrels and tables, all except for Prouvaire who has found an incongruous armchair among the broken furniture. They are shattered with fatigue and unlikely to last much longer. Then again, it is unlikely that they will have to.

It is for him to lead them, to go to their deaths without the shaming despair of death. He will not contaminate his friends; the least he can do for them now is to hold up the ideal of the revolution, even if he has failed to live up to it.

He stands, keeping one hand on the staircase – it would not do for the last two days’ exhaustion to catch him now. The quiet songs and conversations, with which his friends have relieved their misery, fade away.

“We are the only ones left.” 

He forces himself to appear calm as their hopeful cheer is transformed into a quiet horror. There had been hope, yesterday. There is none now.

“The people have not stirred. We are abandoned by those who still live in fear.” It is important to say this clearly, to make them understand. “Let us not waste lives. Let all who wish to part from here.”

The barricade can be manned by just a few – it is not necessary for all of them to stay. Enjolras had been prepared to lay down his life for their cause, yet that thought, often repeated inside his mind, had never extended to the idea of Marius lying empty-eyed and lifeless on the ground. The logic of his first precept does not prove the second, and it is a failure in him, he has realised, that this had not occurred to him earlier. To sacrifice his life in the service of freedom is a fine thing, but the death of his friends quite unbearable

He does not expect his friends to want to leave, but this is the last service he can offer them. Combeferre, for one, would not be among the willing, but as his first lieutenant he can argue that it is Combeferre who should continue their work. The same for Courfeyrac; he can trust them to each other. And Grantaire, who should not be here, who did not want to be here, will certainly go.

His musings are disturbed by a child’s voice, querulous but gathering in strength and conviction: Gavroche, singing their song from the march. We will not be slaves again, Enjolras hears, and sees with growing despair the thought reflected on the faces of his friends. Their voices rise to join Gavroche.

But then the singing is interrupted by a resounding slap, placed on Gavroche’s cheek by the boy with the dirty cap. Or rather, the young woman, her hair beginning to spill out and her shirt unravelling to reveal a tightly banded chest.

“Are you mad? Is it not enough that Marius is dead? Must we all die as well? You are boys playing at war – getting yourself killed will not make you heroes!”

Gavroche’s visible and painful embarrassment echoes the discomfort of being scolded by one’s mother, and Enjolras suspects a similar sensation is shared among his friends – they rarely hear a woman’s voice raised in anger, and certainly not one as ferocious as this. Combeferre is the only one to remain composed, and also unsurprised by the revealed sex of the young person. Enjolras remembers him guiding her away from the barricade, and setting her to work on their supply of ammunition inside the tavern. 

She says what he cannot – the shame of recanting now when he has lead them here is great, but he would do it if there were any hope of them all getting out. It would be possible for a few to escape, dressed in the abandoned uniforms of the National Guard which they have recovered, but there are not enough for all. And it will not be long until their enemy grows tired of taunting them with occasional bouts of fire. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre speaks with a low voice, but it resounds in the quiet space inside their barricade. Enjolras looks around him, and finds the tide has turned. Before this, before Gavroche and the girl, it might have been enough to die with revolution in their hearts, but not now when escape has been suggested. Marius’s dead body is not ten feet from where they stand, and they all feel its presence too keenly. He looks for and finds Grantaire, slouched on a wine barrel with a bottle in his hands. His face is bruised, and pale from lack of sleep; he looks unbearably sad. It is clear he expects Enjolras to speak for a glorious death. 

Then a third voice is heard, an intrusion from the other side. 

“You at the barricades listen to this! The people of Paris sleep in their beds. You have no chance! Why throw your lives away?”

* 

Afterwards, he would not make any more decisions. _We should live_ , he had said, and then stopped. Combeferre had stepped up, as he always does, and talked about what more they could do, how this current failure could be turned into a victory. How they could honour Marius by making his death the beginning of something new. It was Combeferre who had climbed the barricade and conferred with the Captain of the Guard, and given his word that they would not offer further violence in return for a quiet escape.

They abandon their guns, and begin to take their leave in groups of two or three. Feuilly and Prouvaire lead Bahorel away, holding him up between them, Joly and Bossuet depart arm in arm as always. Combeferre offers to escort the young lady home, along with Gavroche who is apparently her brother. Courfeyrac takes it upon himself to carry away what remains of Marius, and is joined by the older gentleman, who turns out to be the father of Marius’s intended. They will take the news to her, as is fitting.

So many connections revealed. It would be difficult to make sense of them, even if his faculties were in correct order, and Enjolras is under no illusion that they are. He might find the energy to think about it some other time, but right now his mind will not cooperate.

Then Grantaire is there, taking his arm. Enjolras allows himself to be led. His feet are not steady, and on several occasions Grantaire has to pull him closer to keep him from falling to the ground. He does not ask where they are going; speaking is difficult and in any case, it does not matter. 

Grantaire takes him by the side streets, somehow avoiding the soldiers still patrolling the city, and leads him back to the boarding-house.

This second entry echoes the first; Grantaire removes his coat, his boots, and his shirt, and gestures for Enjolras to do the same. He does not think about it; his body, it appears, is capable of following orders that his brain has not issued. At some point, his clothes are on the floor. Enjolras stands naked in Grantaire’s room, and does not think about that either.

There is a water basin, which he had not noticed the last time. It is now filled, perhaps by Grantaire’s landlady, perhaps by Grantaire himself in preparation of his eventual return. He had hoped to return, at least. The room is still full of Grantaire’s things, his papers on the desk and his paintings strewn against the wall. It is not the room of a man who expected Enjolras to lead him to his death.

That, in the end, is what breaks him. The shaking starts and he cannot stop, would fall on his knees if not for Grantaire who catches him and drags him over to the bed. Breathing is suddenly impossible, and Grantaire’s hands on his face and on his arms cannot make his blood calm.

He is still dazed when the panic recedes. There is a weakness in his limbs that makes it difficult to move, and his body is curled around Grantaire, a parody of an embrace which adds shame to his embarrassment. Grantaire’s arm under his head ends with a hand buried in his hair, an occasionally tightening caress that sends tendrils of sensation across his skin. The other hand is travelling along his back, a heavy rubbing that is less soothing than it is bracing. It tugs him out of his head and returns him into his flesh, every nerve coming open under Grantaire’s hands, and Enjolras is pitifully grateful for his skill.

He becomes aware that Grantaire is speaking.

“…you are well, we are all well, we are alive, and we will live to fight in other ways, you are alive, Enjolras, and your friends still live, all will be well…”

It is the voice of someone murmuring soothing nonsense to an unhappy child. Enjolras knows that Grantaire himself believes none of it. 

“Marius does not live.”

Grantaire pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. His hands resume, and Enjolras realises that despite his misery there is still comfort in that. “No, but he gave his life with a brave heart, to save his friends. And he succeeded; if not for the loss of Marius, we would not have abandoned the barricade.”

“You mean the girl? Her speech was most persuasive.” It sounds bitter on his tongue, and what a creature is he to resent her power? She saved them all when he could not.

“Eponine is not our leader. Had you not changed our course, we would have followed you to death.”

“Her words were true. They were enough.”

Grantaire says nothing, but his hand pulls at Enjolras’s hair until he can see his face.

“So you were wrong, Apollo. It is luck that your mistake cost one life instead of many, and you will have to live with that. I think you will be better for it. The rest of us mortals are wrong quite often – you will be an improved defender of humanity for having experienced the same.”

“I would be a poor friend if I saw in Marius’s death only a chance to improve myself.”

Grantaire’s fingers tighten in his hair, in annoyance or in rebuke. Enjolras sneaks out his hand from its protective curl against his chest, and pulls at Grantaire’s wrist; his other hand remains a fist between them, his knuckles pressed against Grantaire’s heart.

Grantaire lets go, and entangles his fingers with Enjolras instead.

“You would be, if that was all you did. But you will also mourn him, and speak of him, and keep him alive for us all. For years to come we will raise our glasses to Marius’s empty chair at our table. Jehan will write a poem, and Courfeyrac will cry, and we will tell stories of Marius and his courage, and remember his foolishness as well as his mighty heart. Can you doubt that we shall all be different men because of Marius?”

There is dirt on Grantaire’s cheek; Enjolras realises that the water in the basin and the clean cloths had been spent on, perhaps has only been intended for, his own face. Grantaire is no less exhausted than he, and no less bruised. Still, he speaks with energy and determination. It was not the revolution, Enjolras remembers, that he believed in.

But Grantaire is still talking about Marius.

“It is not enough, but it is what we can do, and we shall do it. Do not torment yourself with worse guilt – we all take a share in this, and we shall all carry the burden with you. For now, we can be glad that we at least still live.”

“Would you have left?”

As soon as he has spoken, Enjolras realises the injustice of the question – that Grantaire will take it as an accusation of cowardice if not of failed brotherhood. There is a quiet unhappiness on his face, a familiar sight from their battles. It is a poor way to repay his kindness, and Enjolras is too tired to be careful with his words, but for this he must try.

“I wanted you to go,” he continues, argues. “You have no faith in our cause, and no need to die for it. I wanted you to go so that you would live. I hoped that you would.”

Grantaire looks at him; thoughtful, a little surprised. “I would not have left while you stayed.” 

“But why?” He knows the answer, but cannot help himself. The thought of Grantaire dead because of him is unbearable.

But Grantaire says nothing, only smiles a little, sadly.

Their fingers are still entangled, which allows Enjolras to bring Grantaire’s hand to his lips; a courtly gesture, one that a knight might give to his lord as well as a lover to his mistress; he intends both. Something in Grantaire’s face breaks open, but Enjolras will not have that – the potential for misunderstanding, for Grantaire to read this wrong is too great – and so he leans over and puts his mouth on Grantaire’s. Their hands loosen; Enjolras lifts himself to press down on Grantaire, to communicate with his body what he cannot do with words. Grantaire’s hands are hesitant on his shoulders, but Enjolras moves against him until he begins to return the motion, hips against hips, hands between bodies. 

When their mouths do separate, Enjolras finds that he has chased away some of the bleakness; there is still a frown lining Grantaire’s brow, but his eyes are dark and focused on Enjolras’s mouth, and he seems unhappy no longer. To make this happen is a skill Enjolras has never appreciated in others, and it is strange to discover it in himself. It might, he suspects, only work on Grantaire.

It is, nevertheless, something he could apply himself to. 

“It is not only Marius who has made me a different man,” he says, and watches as caution and wonderment do battle on Grantaire’s face. He feels an unexpected smile twisting his own lips; pressing it against Grantaire is surely the best way to avoid any further confessions.

There are reparations he must make still, to all of his friends, but most to Grantaire – for what he has accepted from Enjolras as well as for what he has offered. That this is what he should want is a small gift; that it is what Enjolras himself needs to give is a greater still.

 _A revolution_ , he whispers into Grantaire’s shoulder, _leaves no man unchanged_.


End file.
